I snapped this when I was on the 1st floor of the Eiffel Tower one day last week with out-of-town friends. I just read an article about the Tower having installed wind turbines up above the 2nd floor, which will now generate much of its own electricity - so the Tower has gone "green". All evidence in this photo to the contrary.

Sunday, 22 February 2015

When you dream of moving to Paris, your imagination conjures up all sorts of mental images of what it's going to be like. You will visit the Louvre and float down the staircase with the Winged Victory statue behind you, in a red gown with a chiffon scarf floating behind you, like Audrey Hepburn. You will dance with a romantic stranger along the quay of the Seine with Notre Dame in the background, like Leslie Caron. You will stroll with a baguette under your arm, looking impossibly chic. You will sit in a café with a glass of vin rouge, watching the passers-by, while some handsome Frenchman at a nearby table watches you. Your life will be a combination of souvenir postcards and Hollywood movie moments. Mais oui!

Mais... non, not so much.

Real life in Paris (or anywhere else in France), as any ex-pat will tell you, is a combination of extraordinary moments that are exactly (or pretty darn close to) what you had imagined, plus mundane every-day living (you still have dirty dishes and laundry to do, still have to take out the trash, get your teeth cleaned, pay the bills), and a series of incredibly frustrating experiences that make you wonder how you could ever have thought living in France was a good idea.

But then, just as your frustration threatens to overwhelm you to the point where you want to call Air France and book the next flight out of here, you will have one of those extraordinary moments or experiences that remind you what it is you love about this place and why you came here. They're the experiences that make you determined to stay. Because as frustrating as it can be at times (and OH! can it ever be frustrating!), there is no place like France, and no city quite like Paris. Once you're hooked, you're hooked for life.

In honor of The Bold Soul's TENTH BLOGIVERSARY (February 25th), here are some of my own extraordinary moments and experiences from the past eight and a half years of living here. They're the memories I treasure, the experiences I crave, the reason I put up with the stuff I hate (like the dog poo PICK UP AFTER YOUR DAMN DOGS, PARISIANS!) They're in no particular order as to date or importance -- well, except for the first few. For reasons which will soon become apparent.

Stepping off the 89 bus and meeting Georges for the first time...

...and our 26-hour marathon first date that followed.

The first Valentine's Day with Georges, where we picnicked on the Pont des Arts (before "love" locks - why do you think this crusade is so personal to me?)

When Georges proposed to me on "Melon Beach" in Saint Raphael... automatically making Saint Raphael one of my favorite places in France. I'm lucky I get to go back there a few times each year, to visit Georges' sister and spend some time on the beaches.

Going to the Pont des Arts on the day after I moved to France in November 2006, and standing there looking at the city all around me (again - NO LOCKS, JUST PARIS) and thinking: "I have finally, finally DONE IT!" I was never prouder of myself in my life, up to that point.

Any time I see the change in light play off the white stone buildings in the late afternoons. It's magical. I just stopped typing, just now, to watch the change in afternoon light on the building across the street. It glowed!

Whenever the Eiffel Tower "pops up" into my view as I round a corner. I just never get tired of having it appear, like it's following me.

When I am coming back to Paris after being away, and riding in a taxi from CDG airport - and I have my first view of Sacre Coeur. It tells me, "Welcome home!"

Walking past a boulangerie and smelling the fresh bread and croissants. How do they DO that, create such wonderful stuff?

Same with the gorgeous pastries in the bakery windows. They are an art form.

Walking in the Marais or parts of the Latin Quarter where the medieval buildings still exist, leaning lopsided over the street. Or whenever I spot, through a window, original wood beams on the ceiling of an apartment.

Visiting the chateaux. Any castle. Any time. Anywhere in France. Crumbling or restored, I don't care. I want to see more, more, more. Love them. (I am so American that way; we don't have castles where we come from. Just shopping malls.)

Speaking of chateaux, being in Leonardo daVinci's home, Clos Lucé. I've seen it twice. Still one of my favorite things I've ever seen in France.

Cathedrals. I am not religious and was never even Catholic. But show me a Gothic cathedral or an old stone French church and I am there, marveling at the architecture and what it took to build them without modern methods, taking photos of the stained glass, looking for the requisite statue of Jeanne d'Arc that is found in nearly every church in France (I've decided she is my Patron Saint of Kick-Ass; plus my middle name is Jeanne), and then lighting a candle in memory of my grandparents (or lately, for my own good health).

Provençal villages. I want to live in one. I want to BE Peter Mayle (female version) and renovate an old stone farm house, complete with the quirky, unpredictable builders and the neighbor-farmer who takes care of my personal little vineyard. I got to visit several villages in Provence in 2007 thanks to Linda and her husband who invited me to visit them for my 46th birthday. There were fields of scarlet poppies and perched villages with narrow winding streets. Now I want to go and visit more. They are just too adorable. Can't get enough.

Strasbourg. I've been there three times: once on my own during my Grand Tour in 2007, another time I went for the day during the big Christmas market to meet a writing client from the US who was visiting relatives in Germany, and finally Georges and I went there to spend one of his birthdays. I just love it, not only for the quaint Alsatian architecture but also because it feels like a very livable city.

The American Cemetery in Normandy. Visiting this place was a profoundly moving experience for me. You see all those thousands of white markers and think of all those young men, and their sacrifice. There's a site with a live webcam where you can see for yourself, in case you don't get the chance to visit.

Chartres. I still haven't walked the maze on the cathedral floor (you can only do that on Fridays) but I love both the cathedral and the medieval old town.

Brocantes and vide-greniers. These are the professional antique fairs and neighborhood "yard sales" of France, and they fascinate me endlessly. I used to love antique shows back home (although I never went to other people's yard sales, preferring to unload my own junk rather than to take home someone else's junk) but here it's a whole other world of interesting old objects. Spring is coming, and that means lots more of these to visit, and soon!

Café-writing. It came as a surprise to me that I often do my most productive writing while sitting in a noisy café surrounded by strangers, rather than in our own apartment where I can spend so much quiet time on my own during the days. I find that I prefer real French cafés with a bit of ambiance, but I can also get the work done in a Starbucks (although the Starbucks at Opéra has ambiance to spare!)

A shared moment with a Parisian stranger. When I first came here, I knew no one, and my French was not even what you'd call conversational. In fact, when I first met Georges' kids I was appalled to discover I couldn't even have a proper conversation with his 6-year-old son. But every so often, in those early years, I would have some experience while out and about in the city where I would lock eyes with an old man on the street and we'd both laugh at something ridicule we had just witnessed at the same time. Or I would exchange just a few words with Madame standing next to me in line at the supermarket as we expressed our exasperation with the slow-moving check-out girl. Or - my favorite of all - when a FRENCH person would stop me on the street and ask me for directions -- and I could manage to direct them! Those moments made me feel like I was blending in, assimilating, becoming "one of them" for at least those brief seconds. They kept me going when at other times I would go home and cry because I couldn't understand someone who had spoken to me that day.

The architecture. Even today, I have moments where I spot a particular building, or a balcony, or a fountain, and I fall in love with Paris all over again.

The museums. OK, so it's not like I go to museums here every week. But I like having so much art available to me, in such close proximity, where it's so easy to go and see something creative. Growing up in a rural part of New Jersey, the wonderful museums of New York were an annoying hour and a half away (at least) by train or by car. In Paris, there are so many museums I will probably never visit them all in the rest of my lifetime. But it will be fun trying.

Walking with no particular destination in mind. Paris is such a walkable city, and you can meander around for an entire day and never get bored, even if you have no particular destination. Some of my best days have been those where I roam around at a leisurely pace, looking in shop windows or exploring new quartiers.

Getting my first Carte de Séjour (residency card).

Getting my 10-year Carte de Séjour after three consecutive 1-year Cartes de Séjour.

Getting my French nationality in 2013 which means, among other things, no more Cartes de Séjour, ever! My French passport also makes me a European citizen, which means I could live in any country in Europe without a hassle. Not that we're looking to leave France, but just nice to know we have options.

Voting in France for the first time as a citizen. It was only for the Mayor of Paris but it was surprisingly emotional for me to know I have that right to vote here, as well as in the U.S. Vive la democratie!

The fact that now, whenever I see old postcards of Paris in days gone by, or watch a movie set in Paris, I recognize all the places!

There are probably dozens more I could add to this list, and there are even more things to do and places to visit in the future. But voila! This is what I have loved best and enjoyed the most since starting my blog about moving to Paris in 2005 and then since actually moving here in 2006. While it hasn't all been perfect, in so many ways France has exceeded even my dreams, so I can't complain.

Mostly, as I think back on the past 10 years of writing this blog -- TEN DAMN YEARS, can you stand it? -- I am mostly proud of myself for having had the nerve to take the leap in the first place. I'd always wanted to do it since I could remember. I got sick and tired of thinking about it but not doing it. So I made it the #1 priority in my life, even though I didn't now exactly how I would pull it off. But I kept at it until everything finally fell into place and I got on that plane. I made it happen.

Our dreams matter. But what matters even more is our commitment to making them happen. If we don't, we're only cheating ourselves. This blog stands for something: how I finally stopped cheating myself out of the life I really wanted. Ten years on, that life looks different in some ways from what I thought it would be -- for one thing, I never thought I'd be anyone's step-mom, although that turned out to be one of the best parts.

But I'm happier here. I'm more myself here. And I have LOVE here, so much love that sometimes I can't even get my mind around how wonderful it is to be this much in love, as I am with Georges. As even my mother pointed out to me the other day in one of our phone chats, Paris is just where I am meant to be, where I was always meant to be. Georges is a big part of that, but it's also about me, allowing myself to be the kind of person who dreams something, and then DOES it.

I'm so proud that I never gave up on that dream.

To you, my readers, thanks for being a witness, over these past 10 wonderful, blog-able years, to me never giving up on myself. May you have a dream of your own that you're not giving up on, either.

Friday, 20 February 2015

I visited the Musée de Quai Branly this week with some visiting friends (FYI, the museum is doing a special exhibition about the global history of tattoos, if that's your thing), and they have an amazing garden around and even underneath the building, which is very modern and elevated as if on stilts.

At dusk, just as we were leaving, all of these glass rods lit up and created a very pretty scene. The only way I could get the Tower into the frame from where I was standing was to do my famous "tilt" thing.

Then yesterday, I was up ON the Tower with the same friends, and got a shot of the Quai Branly museum from up above - just not tilted. The museum is that green-red-purplish oddly shaped structure in foreground, lower left. Worth a visit even if you aren't so into indigenous art - the architecture and layout of the museum itself is really something (and a bit maze-like!) And the museum's café (which you can visit without even paying to enter the museum, as the café is outside in a separate area) had the most decadent "mi-cuit" chocolate cake (warmed with hot fudge inside). What's not to love?

P.S. Although the dark skies in these photos may not show it, and the temperatures are still cold, spring is coming to Paris. We spotted YELLOW CROCUSES just about to open and bloom in the Champ des Mars near the foot of the Eiffel Tower!

Monday, 16 February 2015

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. "Why," you might be wondering, "would you drag out that tired old cliché?"

I took my first chemotherapy pill this morning.

Last week's visit to the oncologist, our first, was in turns reassuring, enlightening, unsettling, and even a little terrifying.

Reassuring because we really like the doctor, my hair won't fall out on this medication, my white count probably won't be impacted either which means no worries about being exposed to other people and their germs (which means I will be able to travel, even on an airplane), and most of the common side effects I may experience can be managed pretty easily and are typically not as bad as with IV chemo.

Enlightening, because we got all our questions answered by a doctor who has more patience than I ever would have expected (even during a first appointment where you would naturally expect the patient to have an endless list of questions), we learned more about what happened during the surgery, got a copy of the biopsy report, and learned why this particular therapy has been chosen vs. other possible therapies (answer: because it's now considered the best option for people in my specific situation).

We also now understand that the reason I need to do chemo pill therapy, despite the successful radical surgery, is because, even though the surgery took the kidney and tumor, it also affected a lymph node, and they can't guarantee some bad cells haven't floated through my bloodstream to settle somewhere else. And kidney cancer can't be detected through a blood test, it's only detectable when there are enough cells to form a mass that can be seen on a scan. So this is a "Let's be sure we get it ALL" approach, and we can't argue with that.

We learned how the therapy will work: I'll be taking a pill a day for 4 weeks, then have 2 weeks "off", then repeat the 6 week cycle, with periodic blood tests and CT scans to monitor progress and to watch for more serious side effects. The first 3 months (2 x 6-week cycles) will tell us a lot and will set the tone for whatever comes next, and will help us get into a new rhythm to try and plan around the weeks when I will be more fatigued (the 3rd and 4th weeks in particular may be high-fatigue weeks, the other weeks little or no fatigue).

Unsettling, because we learned that pill therapy is a long-term commitment, and what I had imagined being, in a best-case scenario, a 3-6 month stint of chemo followed by regular check-ups to make sure everything is still OK, now looks like a year or longer of being on the medication. Also, the medication (as you see) contains ingredients that are amber-yellow, and my skin might turn yellowish. I'm really pale so that would be a bit creepy. Hopefully, it won't happen or will be so mild that people won't stare or assume I have hepatitis. Or that I used some of that crap tanning cream that makes your skin orange rather than a sun-kissed bronze. No one wants to be THAT idiot, right?

And terrifying because it finally sunk in that, like it or not, I am a cancer patient. Cancer is one tricky, sneaky bitch of a disease. As much as I don't want to be a "cancer patient" or a statistic, this is now part of my life and our family life, a very big part, at least for the next year or so. This wasn't supposed to be a part of my Paris story - but it is. The writer in me wants to write a book about it, the rest of me wishes it just wasn't happening and wants to find something else to write about.

I had a rough week last week, up through and including the doctor's appointment. When we left his office, we stopped at a florist because I told Georges we deserved some spring flowers, and we bought some lavender and purple tulips. Then we got on the bus, and talked quietly. I said, "You know what? I am fucking pissed off at this whole thing. This wasn't fucking supposed to happen to me. This isn't supposed to be in my life, in OUR life. How the FUCK did this happen to ME? Fuck, fuck, FUCK." There is something about that word that just relieves stress sometimes, and I make no apologies for using it liberally, because if any situation ever called for the F-bomb, cancer is it. I'll probably be saying it a lot from now on.

Georges said, "I know. I'm pissed off too. Really pissed off."

"Well you SHOULD be, sweetie. This wasn't supposed to happen to you either, or to the kids, or to our life! You should be fucking pissed as hell!"

And then we laughed and hugged each other. I think we both felt a little better. We can't be zen bold souls all the time. Sometimes we just have to say "Fuck it all, this SUCKS!" and let it be what it is.

The next day, Friday, I was a little calmer. Still weepy at times, but calmer. Acceptance started to sink in. Also, I had to go and do the NBC Nightly News interview for their Valentine's Day program on Saturday night, so I had plenty to keep me occupied which meant less time to stew in my own thoughts. We went out for dinner with the Garçon that evening for raclette, to celebrate the start of his winter school holidays.

Valentine's Day itself was lovely and relaxed. The Garçon left with his mom for a week of skiing in the mountains and I'm sure he's having a wonderful time with all that snow and clean, fresh air. I'm no longer a skier but come to think of it, I wouldn't mind sitting in the sun at a ski lodge sipping a vin chaud myself. Georges and I had a lazy afternoon at home, then went up to La Mascotte in Montmartre for a special dinner; that's where we had dinner together on the evening of our first date. It was a day full of love, capped off by a wonderful love letter Georges wrote to me.

It was also on Saturday when we picked up the box of the first month's supply of pills. We learned that these pills, if we were actually paying full price for them would be over 5,400€ or roughly $6,000 USD. We paid ZERO. So, we were once again grateful for this French health care system, because we don't have to watch our bank accounts be sucked dry by this disease. (Hello, United States lawmakers? THIS IS WHY YOU NEED FREE HEALTH CARE FOR ALL. STOP GIVING YOURSELF BIG FAT RAISES AND JUST FREAKING DO IT.)

Last night, Sunday evening, was when I could feel my perspective on the whole chemo thing begin to shift for the better. Up until then, I felt that chemo was in some way the enemy, the thing I was dreading so much, when in fact the cancer is the enemy.

Then, I realized I have a choice: I can continue to be negative about having to be on treatment for cancer, about having to deal with distasteful or even painful side effects, about having to be "stuck" with this for a year or more of my life, about it sucking my energy and my attention away from living my life the way I want to.

Or...

I can choose to embrace these little yellow capsules as my "new best friend", as the magic that will ensure that my cancer is completely eliminated from my body, and that it will give me back the life that Georges and I want and are fully entitled to have. Every day when I take that pill, I can be grateful to have it, and I can visualize it doing its best to work in the most optimal, efficient way possible to eradicate any and all potential left-over cancer cells from my body -- and that my body will tolerate it really well so that the medication can keep doing its job, so that we can get it right the first time around.

Guess which choice I made?

I believe this is possible: that I can and will be cured. That this cancer treatment may be a part of my life for many months to come, but that in the end it will be the gift that keeps on giving long after I have stopped needing those little yellow pills. So I welcome chemo into my life with open arms and gratitude, though I ask that it please be gentle with me. (I am a chemo virgin, after all.)

It may be February 16, 2015 to the rest of the world, but it's Day 1 to me.

Saturday, 14 February 2015

I'll be strolling on the Pont des Arts, talking to correspondent Katy Tur about our No Love Locks campaign to protect Paris' bridges, responsible tourism, and (if they don't edit it out) a bit about my personal story of finding love right here in Paris.

Check your local listings in the U.S. for air time (I doubt this will be the lead story, but I don't know exactly when it will appear in the broadcast). It will also be available online afterward for those not in the U.S., or if you had plans and couldn't watch the program tonight.

Georges and I have been lazing around the house for most of the day, and tonight we'll go up to Montmartre to have dinner at La Mascotte, where we had dinner on our first marathon date in 2007. I haven't been there in quite a while, and they've done a whole big renovation since I was last there, so I'm eager to see how it all looks. I'm sure a platter of fruits de mer will be on our menu though; it's one of their specialties, and one of our favorites.

Tell us all in the comments what you'll be doing to celebrate love today! Happy Valentine's Day to all!

Sunday, 08 February 2015

I don't often use my blog to write about controversial topics, and the closest I have ever come to being an activist is my pet No Love Locks project. But I read something today that hit a nerve. I started to write about it on Facebook, and what started as a quote from the article and a short comment soon turned into something much bigger: a blog post.

The Guardian published this article by Lindy West on cyber-bullying a few days ago. From reading that article, I jumped to one of the links to another article the same author had written for Jezebel.com, about why she sometimes chooses to confront the "trolls" (i.e. cyber-bullies) who frequently attack and even threaten her online, despite conventional wisdom dictating that she should ignore the trolls altogether, that "feeding" the trolls is precisely what they want and she shouldn't give in to them.

Lindy wrote:

"I talk back because the expectation is that when you tell a woman to shut up, she should shut up. I reject that. I talk back because it's fun, sometimes, to rip an abusive dummy to shreds with my friends. I talk back because my mental health is my priority—not some troll's personal satisfaction. I talk back because it emboldens other women to talk back online and in real life, and I talk back because women have told me that my responses give them a script for dealing with monsters in their own lives. And, most importantly, I talk back because internet trolls are not, in fact, monsters. They are human beings—and I don't believe that their attempts to dehumanize me can be counteracted by dehumanizing them."

Oh, I could so relate to this! This is precisely why, though I rarely have had problems with trolls on my blog or social media (I'm just not that controversial), there have been times where I have chosen to talk back to a troll using the best tools I have at my disposal: my words. Others have told me the same thing they told Lindy: Don't feed the trolls, don't give them the attention they want, ignore them and they'll go away. It seems like sound advice, the same thing your mother might have told you when you were a child and some snarky kid on the playground was pulling your hair or shoving your face in the sand. Take the high ground! Be the bigger person! Don't give those losers the satisfaction of noticing them! Don't show them you care what they think! Ignore them, ignore them, ignore them!

Except for one thing: Lindy is right. Internet trolls and bullies DON'T go just away, in most cases, whether you feed them or not. In the Internet age, it is more and more difficult to fight back against the sort of cowardly person who would venomously and almost always anonymously attack a total stranger for no reason other than THEY BELIEVE THEY CAN.

It was a little different in the pre-Internet days. When someone was bullying you at school, for instance, you could at least have a name and a face to connect to the torture. You had at least the possibility that something might be done, if you were brave enough to speak out. Not that you would necessarily be that brave, but at least the attacks weren't anonymous.

Let me share a story: When I was 13, some girls in my class decided, for no good reason other than I existed in their space and breathed their air, to start routinely torturing me verbally and occasionally, physically. One of those girls had been my best friend until she decided, for reasons of her own, to hook herself up with the so-called "cool kids". And so it began: the breaking of my heart by the betrayal of a friend, and spending every single day trying to figure out how to avoid the abuse and keep myself sane. It got increasingly difficult. Other kids in the class quickly jumped on the bully bandwagon, although a few did not and remained kind to me. But no one actively stood up for me or encouraged me to fight back; they didn't want to be targets either. Could I blame them? I went home and cried nearly every day. My mother wanted to contact the school; I begged her not to, afraid of the inevitable backlash, because at 13, peer pressure is all there is, and you don't yet have the life experience to know you can survive it if you speak out.

But finally, one afternoon, I snapped. The bully group, led by one girl in particular who always seemed to be the meanest of the mean, pushed my buttons once too often by literally PUSHING me down the school hallway after the last bell at the end of the day. Usually, their tactics were verbal, but this time, this bitch put her hands on me. Suddenly, without thinking about it, I whipped around with my hand balled into a fist, fully prepared to knock that girl flat on her mean, skinny ass, if that's what it would take to get her/all of them to back the fuck off. I had never hit another person in my life (excepting sibling slap-fighting with my little sister), and I was mortally afraid of fighting this girl or anyone, but by this point I no longer cared. It was my "Scut Farkis" moment:

Well... not quite. The FEAR I saw on that mean girl's face in those long seconds, where I stared her down with my fist at the ready, was all the satisfaction I needed. In the end, I didn't hit her. I didn't have to; I saw that SHE knew I meant business, that I was no longer willing to take it from her or from any of them, and that she was an inch from serious pain if she didn't stop. She stopped.

I turned away and walked down the hallway with my head held high and with no more pushing or taunting from the bullies. I got on my school bus and went home, where I promptly burst into tears again. Then I flatly refused to return to school until the principal had changed my entire class schedule so that I wouldn't have to be with any of those kids again (even though there was only one month left in the school year). He tried to reason with me, assuring me the other kids wouldn't bother me again, that he'd make sure of that; but I wouldn't budge, and I no longer cared about retribution from my peers at school. I named names and gave details. I told him everything. I wanted freedom from their abuse and from even having to see their faces every day, and I wanted them held accountable.

I won. The principal not only changed my schedule, but he hauled the five worst bullies (the three original girls plus two of the boys) and their parents into school on the following day so that the kids could be appropriately punished (I think it involved a few days of suspension). I went back to school the next day, nervous but relieved. Their dirty looks I could handle, but at least I didn't have to be in a classroom with them. I got through that last month without any further problems with those kids. The next year, and for the rest of my school career, I never had any more bullying issues, either. I made other friends, got involved in activities, and generally had a good social life. Looking back, I now think of my last years of high school as one of the best times of my life. By the end of it, I was even on speaking terms with the girl who had once been my best friend but betrayed me; in my senior yearbook, she even wrote me a full-page apology for what she had done to me at 13. Wow.

And you know what else? Last year, out of nowhere, nearly 40 years later, that meanest of the mean girls, the one I nearly punched in the face, actually contacted me privately on Facebook and apologized for having been mean to me when we were 13. I could not have been more shocked, quite honestly. She also wanted to be Facebook "friends", but although I accepted her apology with good grace, I also politely declined her attempt at virtual friendship. I mean, we weren't friends before, so why pretend now? Still, I forgave her that day, and easily so. Actually, I had forgiven her decades earlier.

Forgiveness isn't about telling an abuser that what he/she/they did to you is permissible, acceptable, OK. It's about not holding onto the negative emotions that stem from the abuse, about not letting those emotions define and impact your life or your vision of who you really are. So I forgave those mean girls and boys long ago. I may not have forgotten, and I didn't care to be friendly with them, but I did forgive them in the sense that I let go of their good or bad opinion of me and decided that MY opinion of myself was the one that mattered the most. In that sense, those teenage "trolls" probably did me a big favor by bullying me. I learned to stand up for myself for the first time in my life, and discovered that sometimes it was OK to fight back; this was a lesson I have carried with me ever since, and my life no longer revolves around the need for the good opinion of others.

(Not that I don't love it when someone compliments my writing, of course. Writers thrive on love from readers, we all know that.)

For the record, though I don't have many trolls passing by this blog (you Bold Soul readers are super-awesome!), you would not believe some of the hate mail and nasty comments my No Love Locks co-founder and I received as a result of trying to get people to stop putting locks on historic Parisian bridges. Whether the hateful words came from a minority of French who just can't stand Americans, or from Americans who either loved the love locks or else hated the fact that we chose to live in France (i.e. we must be traitors to the good ol' U.S. of A. if we wanted to live somewhere else especially FRANCE), the thing we most often heard was "Why do Americans have to stick their big noses into other countries' business? What makes you think you have the right?" And all we thought we were doing was supporting the city and other Parisians by getting the ugly locks cleaned off the bridges! I can't even count the number of times profanity was used, including the infamous "C" word. And that word sure wasn't "Class".

Now, when I do encounter the rare Internet bully, what do I do? Many times, I ignore them. Most of the time, they are not worth the effort of responding. If I do write anything in return, I try to take that high road and rather than attacking them directly, do my best to use the power of my words to make them look like the idiots they really are, but in a sarcastic, amusing way. I mean, there is nothing a bully hates more than when you point your finger and laugh at him, like the boggart in Harry Potter. Some well-placed sarcasm can be your Riddikulus charm against a bully.

And then, every so often, when I feel like it really matters to me personally and that not speaking my truth will be worse than backing off, I will stand up at my keyboard and tell it like it is, and to hell with the high road. As Lindy said, if it makes me feel better about myself, then why not say what I want and do it my way? Especially when it's on my blog or my social media account. Because now you're on MY turf, you twat.

Do I think I can change the opinion of my biggest critics, or even silence them, by speaking up and fighting back? Not really. They may shut up and go away. I may be forced to block them if I am able. Yet they will still be "out there", and it is a very rare thing when a troll sees the error of their ways and then apologizes, as happened to Lindy or when my former classmate contacted me after 40 years.

But I will be damned if I sit silently and take it when some wanker crosses the line from "critique"/the freedom to disagree with me to bashing, insulting (or worse, threatening) me, just because I am a woman and a blogger and I have the audacity to put myself "out there" on the Internet and voice an opinion they don't like. Or, heaven forbid I go so far as to post a mocking photo of a Turkish toileton my blog, which for some insane reason resulted in a lot of heated commentary that mystifies me to this very day.

I'm lucky, in the sense that in the 10 years I have been blogging and "putting myself out there" in the public eye with my writing, it has been rare that a persistent troll has tried to shut me up, and even more rare that I've felt the need to resort to a strong response in my own defense. But there are so many other women bloggers who are getting slammed by these jerks on a daily basis, and not only slammed but threatened terroristically with rape and murder, and as much as we can try and tell ourselves it doesn't sting or scare us, the fact is, sometimes it does, and then you have a choice to make: stay silent with your tail between your legs and try to let it go; or talk back and risk the troll army advancing even further.

There is no perfect solution here. We live in a world where bullies exist in all forms: from the mean kids at school who make your (or your kid's) life an adolescent hell; to cyber-bullies and blog trolls who try to crowd-force you into disappearing from the Internet; to people who will tell you your religion or your politics are wrong because you don't believe what they believe; to open-carry gun activists hanging around the Walmart or your local diner because they like to show off their "rights" by scaring the rest us with their legalized heavy artillery (THERE, I said it: showing up with your damn gun in a public place because you're trying to prove your point makes you a BULLY); to actual terrorists who hijack planes, level buildings and kill hostages on camera. There will always be some bully, somewhere; it's just a matter of degree. Sometimes, it's okay, maybe even prudent, to remain silent when faced with a bully. You will always have to use your own best judgment about that.

But sometimes, you have to stand up to the bullies and speak out, if for no other reason than to keep your self respect. Especially in a world where some will still try and silence a voice raised in defense or protest, just because that voice is female.

So whether you're a prominent female blogger who's being told you have no right (write) to be on the Internet or that you're a terrible mother, or whether you're a teenage girl or boy who is being cyber-bullied by your peers, the point is, you will take back your own power when you choose to stand up, ball your virtual fist, and find a way to say, in your own best words: "That's enough, Troll. I've had it with you. You've crossed the line. So just back the fuck off."

Friday, 06 February 2015

It isn't all about cancer around here, you know. As much as I will be writing about the cancer stuff -- because this is a blog about my life in France and cancer is, for now (unfortunately), a big part of my life here in France -- this is still Paris and there are still so many other things to write about life here!

For instance - today I was able to go across town to the Left Bank (woo-boo, out of the 'hood at last!) to meet Linda for lunch. Typically when we hook up for lunch, we also do a lot of walking around and taking photos, and I was physically up to some walking, but it was so freaking cold today that we ended up sitting in Saint Germain-des-Prés church for a while so we could quietly talk out of the cold. Then we went to a restaurant just a block away because it was close and I'd eaten there before.

Then we did manage a few photos of the outside of Le Petit Zinc, a gorgeous (and pricey) Art Nouveau restaurant, before catching the 95 bus. We got off near the Pont des Arts because I haven't been able to go there and check out the ongoing horror and damage of the love locks since early November. Couldn't believe that even in that cold, there were people selling, buying and attaching locks. There was even one couple sitting on a bench with a bottle of champagne and two glasses, and a lock all ready to attach somewhere. Are they blind? The entire bridge was boarded over and covered with graffiti, with only little sections of the boards torn away (by the illegal lock sellers) where it is still possible to attach locks. Even in the cold, these tourists are willing to go there and totally disrespect and vandalize Paris with those locks. But I was too cold to stop and yell at them.

It was so cold that we kind of speed-walked our way across the bridge, taking photos as fast as we could because our fingers were freezing, and then we each rushed off to catch our respective buses. Behind the Louvre, I was approached by two of the Roma pickpockets with their usual fake petitions -- even in the freezing cold they are out there "working" -- and told them in French that if they didn't back off and get away from me I was going to call the cops, then I wished them a nice day and kept moving at top speed to catch my bus and get out of the cold (I even heard one of those girls say to the other how freaking cold it was).

Luckily I only had to wait 3 minutes for my bus: although transport can be aggravating, on a cold day I'm just plain grateful to let someone else do the driving. I've been home for more than an hour and I'm STILL shivering. It's just that kind of a cold day in Paris.

To celebrate that I was able to get out and enjoy a normal day out with a friend (cold or no cold), here are some photos from this sunny yet freezing day. Enjoy and STAY WARM wherever you may be (and if you're somewhere tropical, don't tell me. I don't want to know.)

On my first-ever visit to Paris, THIS was the first thing I saw when I came out of the metro with my suitcase, looking for my hotel on the Rue Bonaparte. Still love this ancient church, the oldest in Paris - Saint Germain-des-Prés.

It's dark inside and needs restoration (they're working on a fund for this) of the old painted interior. Sort of a combination of Gothic and Medieval architecture.

From the oldest church in Paris to the newest look in Parisian fashion, I fell in love with this neat little handbag from Yves Saint Laurent in a shop between the Deux Magots and Café Flore. Although I just noticed, looking at the photo, there is a small padlock on the zipper. Well, better a lock on your purse than on one of our bridges (see last photo).

Gorgeous Art Nouveau exterior of Le Petit Zinc. We decided that at some future date, we'll actually go inside and have at least a coffee and some cake or a drink. We really want to see the interiors but probably won't eat lunch while we're there. The lunch menu costs 39€ - pretty pricey; I spotted lots of very well-dressed people sitting inside enjoying their expensive lunches. They must work for Louis Vuitton which is located just next door; those LV executives can probably afford to eat there regularly.

You're killing me, tourists and locks sellers. You are absolutely just KILLING ME while you are also killing the view and killing this bridge with your ridiculous, misguided perspective on a padlock meaning love (Hint: a padlock doesn't mean love, it means ENTRAPMENT.) NO LOVE LOCKS!

Wednesday, 04 February 2015

Whenever I am faced with a situation where there may be bad news, I am more freaked out by the NOT KNOWING, than by finding out the news is bad. The NOT KNOWING is always the greater of the two evils.

When I don't know something I need to know, and then I get the news itself, of course if the news is good, I am thrilled and relieved. But even if the news is bad, there is still a sense of relief because at least I KNOW. I KNOW, and then I can process it. When I can process it, I can deal with it. Even when the news is "You have cancer."

My reaction when I heard that went from momentary disbelief ("Did I hear him right?") to shock ("Oh holy fuck.") to acceptance ("OK, deep breath. It is what it is. Now let's deal with it.") All of this happened in about 10 minutes, sitting right in my doctor's office. Did I cry? Of course. But I didn't have hysterics. My ability to segue to acceptance sometimes astonishes even me. But once I know something, I am very good at getting past the moment of denial and moving quickly into accepting what is, and then looking quickly for ways to cope with it or fix it.

But today I am at the point in my Cancer-in-France story where I am about to know something new and very critical. The Next Big Thing is about to happen, except I don't know precisely what it is yet. And it's making me crazy that I don't know what I know I am about to know. You know?

Today, I have an appointment with my urologist/surgeon, Dr. D., and this should be a normal post-op follow-up. I haven't seen him since the day before I left the hospital when he gave me the unexpected happy news that I could go home for Christmas. For the most part, I anticipate that today's appointment will be him checking to see how I'm feeling (pretty damn good, just a bit tired, thanks), how my scar has healed (I predict he'll be delighted with his own workmanship), and that we'll talk about these blood thinners and how much longer I'll need to take them.

Next Thursday, I will have my first rendez-vous with the oncologist, Dr. R.

Somewhere between today and next Thursday, I will finally know the rest of what I don't already know, but desperately need to know. Because now it's about the rest of my life.

I will KNOW what kind of cancer I actually have. A nurse friend told me that even though the tumor was on the kidney, it might not be kidney cancer. That was a surprise to me. It could be something else entirely. This is something that is very important to know because it may impact treatment decisions.

I will KNOW what stage my cancer is at. This is also something that we need to know, and it's scary.

I will KNOW for sure what sort of chemo they are going to give me. Up until now, they've told me they plan to give me a pill form of chemo, which is nice because I can take it at home and no IV needles, and that normally the side effects are much less severe. I'm going on the assumption this will all still be the case. But ever since the first visit to the E.R. where they told me "kidney stones" and then 3 days later I heard "cancer" and "internal bleeding", this has been a roller coaster NOT-Fun house ride where surprises lurk around every bend. So at this point I am afraid to assume anything. They could change their minds about what sort of chemo to give me. The pills could still produce side effects - like, will my hair fall out (every woman's worst nightmare, right?) How long will I need to be on this chemo - are we talking 3 months, 6 months, 9 months, a year? While I'm on chemo, how will it restrict my lifestyle? The list of things I don't know about my upcoming treatment is enormous - but I have wisely resisted doing any kind of online research because the subject is too huge and everyone's situation is different. Maybe once I have more facts, some online research could be useful, but without more KNOWING there is no point in scaring myself even more.

Because I am scared. There, I said it. I am scared of what is about to happen next. I am scared of what I don't know, and what finally knowing will actually mean for my life. Even while I trust my doctors and have a good feeling this will all turn out well in the end, there is still a part of me that is being fed by the anxiety of the NOT KNOWING. And that anxious part is the one that is dreaming up all the bad scenarios, the What-Ifs, the "could happens". The stuff I don't want to think about or face. The stuff that makes me cry quietly in bed late at night when Georges is sleeping.

All (well, most of) my fears are rooted in the NOT KNOWING. In the past 2 1/2 months since this all started, I've been able to keep these fears at bay quite successfully by focusing on being in the moment, being positive and dealing with whatever was right in front of me. It was easier to deal with things by compartmentalizing, by taking the one-step-at-a-time approach. By doing this, I could postpone the NOT KNOWING about this chapter of the story, because I had all the other chapters to deal with first.

Chapter 1 was the assumption of kidney stones. Three days later, it was hearing the word "cancer" and knowing there was internal bleeding going on. Then it was finding out that I'd have to have both tumor AND kidney removed. Then it was discovering (luckily, before surgery) there was a blood clot, and having the most painful medical procedure of my entire life in order to stop the bleeding (effectively cutting off blood supply to the soon-to-be-removed kidney) and to block the clot from moving anywhere. All of these things happened within the space of FIVE SHORT DAYS, by the way.

Then it was healing from that procedure, and waiting for a decision on the next big chapter: when the major kidney surgery would happen. At first we were told it could possibly be put off until after the holidays, then learned the doctors felt it was best to get it over with quickly and that I'd probably spend Christmas in the hospital. Then it was the surgery itself and the week in the hospital afterward, with a great view of the Eiffel Tower that I couldn't really enjoy because I could barely move out of bed. Then finding out I'd have to have blood thinners by injection 3x/day at home. Leaving the hospital and not being able to move without help for the first three days. Slowly, so slowly, recovering. Injections continuing longer than expected. And then even longer. Every day, getting a little bit stronger, being able to do something I couldn't do the day before. Healing, always healing.

About 10 days ago or so, I realized that I am, for all intents and purposes, healed from surgery. The first part of this story is complete. I may be minus one kidney, but still have one healthy one left. The tumor is gone and allegedly no traces of it remain in the abdomen. I can get around, go shopping, do light housework, cook a meal, go to a restaurant, sit in a café and write, and I even took care of Georges when he was sick over the past weekend with a very bad cold.

That's all good, right? So what's the problem?

In the past few days, it has hit me: I now have nothing else to focus on EXCEPT THE STUFF I DON'T KNOW. The chapters that haven't been written yet. The part where I know I will have toxic chemicals put into my body in order to definitively get rid of something that had no business being there in the first place. The part where I don't know how I'm going to feel (or look) while I go through treatment. The part where I don't know how long it will take. The part where I allow myself to think that, even though I truly do believe that my story will have a happy ending, I also know it doesn't always work out that way. And what if?

And that's why I'm sitting here, weeping as I write this, because the next phase is upon me and I can no longer push it off to the future, and because I simply don't know what's going to happen next. Once again, the NOT KNOWING is making my life hell. It's never the stuff I know about that messes with my head. Even learning I had cancer in the first place was not as emotionally charged for me as THIS moment of feeling like I am standing on a cliff and one little breeze could blow me over the edge because I DO NOT KNOW EVERYTHING YET. When I go to the urologist today, will HE be the one to give me the biopsy report - or will I have to wait another week to hear it from the oncologist? I don't even know that much.

I will pull myself together, because I always do, it's just part of who I am. I will remind myself that my initial reaction, on the day I learned I had cancer, was "OK, this is just something I have to get through, and it will be fine in the end. I will accept no other outcome than beating this and being well." (Life Tip: Always trust your first instinct, your first impression, your first thought about something because it happens BEFORE fear has a chance to set in and cloud your truthful inner voice.) I will remind myself of what I DO know to be true: that we create or attract that which we focus on most, and I am consciously choosing to focus on good health, on being in better health in the next year than I've ever been in my entire life. I am focusing on the outcome I want: perfect health. And my Taurean stubbornness comes in really handy here, because I refuse to accept anything else than this outcome.

Which means there is no safe haven for the fear to come in and take over. The fear is just temporary, just my reaction to my own thoughts. The NOT KNOWING is my boogeyman, my gremlin, my nemesis. But those are just my anxious thoughts, they aren't WHAT IS and they aren't WHAT WILL BE.

What IS, is that I am loved, so deeply and unconditionally loved, and by many people starting with my wonderful Georges. I am being well cared for and surrounded by excellent medical people. I have a support network that extends around the world with people who are sending me their prayers and good thoughts for me and for my family as we get through this thing together.

So now I just have to "get through" the next few hours until today's appointment, and then "get through" one more week until the next appointment. Then I will know. And then I can get on with doing what I need to do to create WHAT WILL BE: perfect health.

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